Dreamhouse
by cactusnell
Summary: Sherlock starts a small project, but it turns into something much bigger. Sherlolly
Molly Hooper was currently riding the tube, traveling the relatively short distance from her flat to 221B Baker Street. The text she had received the previous evening had done nothing to inform her of why she was required, but this was not unusual behavior when it came to the world's only consulting detective. And complying without question was, also, not unusual behavior on the part of his pathologist. The text simply read "NEED YOU AT BAKER ST TOMORROW A.M. COME EARLY BE PREPARED TO STAY LATE." That was all it took to have her on the tube at 8:00 A.M. on a Saturday morning.

When she arrived at the flat, it was to find a handwritten note on the door telling her to come to the back garden. While she was curious to discover what kind of experiment the detective could be conducting in the great outdoors of the small patch of greenery, she found herself hoping that it did not involve burying any bodies. With Sherlock, one could never tell. Making her way back down the stairs and out to the back of the building, Molly was surprised to find Sherlock Holmes, wearing a toolbelt and crouching over a pile of lumber. While she had to admit that the man always looked good in his tightly fitted suits and flowing coat, she had to admit that the sight of him bent over in tight jeans, a short jacket, and tossled curls made her heart almost stop. Not to mention the toolbelt riding low on his slim hips.

This was going to be a good day, she decided. One of those rare days when the man of her dreams abandoned the intellectual and sophisticated persona of a famous detective, and became simply Sherlock, "regular" guy. It happened so rarely that she may, in fact, be one of only two people to have ever witnessed the event. Outside of his family, that is.

"Sherlock, what in the world is that?"

"It's a playhouse, Molly. One that we are about to assemble for our godchild. I thought it would be a rather memorable Christmas present."

"Sherlock, Claire is not quite a year old. Don't you think this is a bit premature? And in the wrong location?"

"Please, Molly! The child is well advanced for her young age…"

"She can barely walk, you git! She's not even a year old!"

"She's a toddler, Molly. She's supposed to be a bit wobbly."

"And how big is this thing going to be, anyway? She's such a tiny little thing," Molly said, surveying the large pile of wood scattered around the area.

"Not very large, just six by eight feet, with a height of seven feet at its maximum. And I am not to blame for the child's short stature. Being John's daughter, she is hardly likely to achieve Amazonian stature, is she? More Hobbit sized, I would guess." He looked up at her and smiled. "But who knows, perhaps taller children will make use of it in the future."

"Sherlock, not that you don't look like an expert, what with the toolbelt, and all, but do you know what you're doing here?" Molly spoke in a doubtful tone.

"How hard can it be, Dr. Hooper? We're both University graduates, after all, and it does come with instructions." He held up some printed sheets of paper. "And they're not even in Swedish!"

"Sherlock, you do remember when you tried to repair the plumbing in your bath, right?"

The detective winced at the memory. "Really, Molly, that turned out rather well, after all. My plumbing is in perfect shape now."

"Thanks to Mrs. Hudson's erstwhile boyfriend, and his experience. By the time he arrived, you had shorted out the electricity, and flooded Mrs. H's flat. I thought she was going to kill you!"

"Not after she got a good look at Mr. Green's plumber's cleavage, Molly. Why is it that plumbers always seem to wear trousers a size too small?" He let out a small but genuine laugh. "Not too worry, though. There will be no plumbing involved in this project. Just some measuring, hammering, and screwing. I'm sure we can handle it."

"What makes you think I know anything about hammering and screwing, Sherlock?" Molly said, instantly regretting her choice of words.

"I would think that you know as much about screwing as I know about laying pipe," he answered her with a laugh. "Pardon the euphemism, and the joke. I couldn't resist!" He then looked at her with a genuine smile on his face, and this was one of the moments she lived for. "I have faith, Molly. We can do this. It will be a wonderful surprise for Christmas."

"Couldn't it be a wonderful surprise for, say, Easter? Or Spring bank holiday? It's rather chilly to be working outside, don't you think?"

"Nonsense! It's well above freezing, and the forecast is for sun over the next few days. And, I thought it would be perfect to unveil it at our Christmas party. Surprise the child. And John. Maybe even Mary," he added with some doubt.

"Are you having a Christmas party, then?" Whenever she thought of Christmas parties, Molly could not help but remember that terrible occasion a few years before. Before her detective had vanished for two years, before he had shot that bastard Magnussen, and long before he had developed a bit of a social conscience, and a certain delicacy in dealing with people.

" **We're** throwing a party, Molly. You and I. I need help with such things. Left to my own devices, the decor would be less than festive, and we'd all be sitting around crunching crisps and drinking bad coffee. From dirty mugs, and with a touch of formaldehyde. I can't ask Mrs. Hudson to help, as she's too busy becoming acquainted with her latest "Mr. Right", and John and Mary have their own life now." He looked at her expectantly, with a bit of his usual "puppy dog" eyes. "You'll help me, won't you?"

Of course she would. Despite all his previous bad behavior, and his often unfeeling treatment of her, and despite the fact that, because of those things, she had often vowed that the next time she helped him to die, we wouldn't be able to get up and walk away, Molly knew she would do anything he asked, including putting together a child's playhouse, and planning a party. She looked down at the stacked lumber, and said, "I suppose we should get started, then. This is going to take some time."

"Yes, well, if you remember, I did tell you to be prepared to stay late."

"Sherlock, have you considered that at this time of year, the sun sets about four o'clock? We won't get much work done in the dark, and the cold."

"We have torches."

Molly just sighed, wondering how he expected to hold a torch if his hands were busy hammering, or drilling, or screwing. Brilliant as he was, some practicalities always escaped him! "Okay, let's get started," she said, trying to sound cheerful, but already harboring some doubts about the outcome of the project. But, surely, any man who could construct such a massive mind palace could manage a child's playhouse.

They quickly went about the work. Sherlock had already organized the parts into some sort of system. Molly was perusing the instructions, which may as well have been in Swedish as far as she was concerned. Sherlock assured her that he had already read them and committed them to memory, although she had her doubts. The man often believed that he could figure things out on his own, without consulting experts.

"Sherlock, are there any power tools involved?"

"Yes, an electric drill, and screwdriver. No sawing required as it is all pre-cut…"

"I'll be right back!"

"Where are you going? We haven't got all day, you know!"

"We do, in fact, have all day, you git. And I'm going for the first aid kit in your flat."

"Really, do you think that's necessary, Molly?"

"Bookcase. Need I say more?"

Sherlock winced at the mention of his last foray into carpentry, and the stubborn blood stain, small but persistent, still to be found on his sitting room rug. "Fine, but make it quick!" He tried to sound impatient, but at the same time he was thankful that his companion was, indeed, a qualified medical practitioner.

After this rough start, the day passed surprisingly easily. Molly treasured days like this, just she and Sherlock. And there had been more and more of them in recent times. John had settled into his life with Mary and their young daughter, and the detective often reached out to her for companionship. Life had dealt him a series of blows. He had removed himself from his own life to spend two years traveling, breaking down the remains of Moriarty's network. Molly had been his lifeline to the people and life he had left behind. Then he had been shot, by his best friend's wife, no less, and, after barely surviving, faced a long recovery. Finally, the man was almost sent into an exile meant to end with his death, and had overdosed in a possible suicide attempt. But he had come through everything, including rehab, his humanity intact, perhaps even a bit more human than before.

"Sherlock, really, why are we doing this?" Molly asked toward the end of the day, as they were putting the finishing touches on the sleeping loft inside the mini home.

"Don't you think she'll like it, Molly?" he answered with some concern.

"Of course she'll like it! Every kid dreams of a little house of her own. I know I did."

"I had a treehouse, actually," the detective said with a smile. "It was a ship, really, as I had a particular fondness for pirates."

"Yes, I know. Mycroft mentioned your love of all things piratical."

"Did he mention that he and my father built me a "tree-ship". The summer before he went away to boarding school. Mycroft, being a control freak even at the ripe old age of fourteen, insisted on designing it himself, then got Papa to help him build it. It took a bit of time, as my brother is no more adept with carpentry tools than I am. They tried to convince me that I was helping, but, really, all I did was pass them tools and run for drinks and snacks. It was magnificent. A cabin for sleeping at the stern, a deck rigged with sails in the trees, and a spinning ship's wheel on the bow. They slung a cargo net over the side so I could climb aboard, and built a gangplank so Redbeard could join me." Sherlock smiled a bit guiltily. "Since you became so well acquainted with Mycroft during my absence, I assume you already know that he is not, actually, as rubbish a big brother as I may have suggested."

"And, since I have become so well acquainted with you over these many years, I know that you are not as uncaring, or lacking in sentiment, as you portray yourself to be."

"Please keep your observations to yourself, Molly. It would not do to have the criminal elements of this great city aware that I may have gone soft. It would do my reputation as the world's greatest consulting detective no good. Although my towering, unmatched intellect, and my preternatural gift for deduction should be enough to strike fear into their very hearts, at the very least."

"Watch your step there, mate."

"What?"

"You're in grave danger of tripping over your oversized ego!" Molly said with a laugh, to which the detective responded in kind.

Sherlock finished nailing the last nail to secure the sleeping loft, and dropped down to sit on the wooden floor of the house. "I'm so glad we're finished. Physical labor is much more debilitating than thinking, I find."

"We're hardly finished. The door still has to be put in. And then we have all the painting and decorating to do!"

"I think I prefer the rustic look of unfinished wood, Molly."

"Yes, well you're not a little girl looking for a comfy home for her dollies, Sherlock." Molly shook her head. "It needs paint, and some form of floor covering, and bedding for the loft, and we should decorate it for Christmas. Fairy lights, and holly. Maybe even a small Christmas tree…"

"Molly, as you pointed out, the child is not quite a year old. Surely she won't notice!"

" Sherlock, if you didn't want to do a complete job, why did you undertake this project, anyway?"

"Honestly? I did it to prove to John that I'm a better godfather than he is a father. He'll now have to concede the point, or build one of these monstrosities in his own back garden."

"That's kind of selfish, don't you think? And arrogant?"

"Molly, don't you know me at all? Why would you be surprised by that?" he replied, chuckling. "Besides, this thing will last for a long time, with a little upkeep. I may find another use for it."

Molly looked down at the poor man, sitting, quite exhausted, with his back against the wall of the small house. She couldn't deny the fact that she found him especially attractive when he was removed from his comfort zone, unprotected by the armor of his bespoke suits and his Belstaff. In a split second she decided to go for it, sitting herself down on his extended legs, reaching her hands behind his neck, and delivering the kiss she had wanted to deliver for years. When she pulled away, she immediately saw that the man wore the expression which John referred to as his "buffering face." When he stayed that way, wordless, for over two minutes, Molly just had to ask, "Sherlock, are you okay?"

"That was unexpected, Molly."

"I don't see how it could have been. I've wanted to do it for ages, and, after all, you do have, in your own words, ' a preternatural gift for deduction' " She smiled at the man, who, unexpectedly smiled back. "I'm sorry, though. I know you don't like that sort of thing."

"Don't be ridiculous. I said 'unexpected', not 'unpleasant'. I just wish I had found the courage to do it first. But perhaps we should go inside, as I see by the light coming from her flat that Mrs. Hudson has returned, and in all likelihood will come out to investigate the strange structure in her garden. I don't relish the thought of her disturbing us in the midst of a snogging session."

"Are we about to be in the middle of a snogging session, Sherlock?"

"Only if we go someplace more comfortable, Molly. We're not teenagers anymore. I have a perfectly good flat mere steps away."

"Really?"

"Yes. You've been there many times. I'd think you'd remember…"

"Stop teasing! You know I'm talking about the snogging part, not the flat," Molly said as she punched his shoulder.

"Yes. Well, I think it's about time we had dinner," the detective continued, remembering all of those invitations from Irene Adler, and John's explanation that "dinner" did not always mean simply a meal. "I believe I have worked up quite an appetite." He looked at her in a somewhat predatory fashion. "I deduce that you may be feeling a bit peckish, as well."

"Sherlock, one thing more. You said that Mrs. Hudson would notice the 'strange' structure in her garden. Does that mean that you haven't asked her permission to built this thing? It is her property, after all."

"She won't mind. She adores Claire, and the property will be mine in due time, although hopefully not anytime soon. Mrs. H's will gives me right of first refusal on the purchase of the building, a right which I will exercise."

"Really? Why would you need such a large house? I mean, it's just you."

"Perhaps it won't be at some later date. I told you that perhaps some taller children could make use of it in the future. I assume my offspring will be relatively tall, despite the genetic contribution of a rather diminutive mother." Saying this, he placed his hand atop Molly's head, as if to accentuate her lack of stature. "But, if I have a son, I would like to build a ship, I think. I did so love playing the scourge of the seas."

"Sherlock, you take a lot of things for granted!"

"I know, Molly, my love, but you have yet to disappoint me. I doubt you ever could!" Having made such extraordinary remarks, the infuriating man quickly moved his legs, dumping her onto the hard wooden floor of the playhouse. "Let's get inside. It's getting darker and colder by the minute! We should decide what we want to eat, and then settle in for the night. Since we have so much more to do tomorrow, I think you should spend the night here. We can start new in the morning after a good night's, uh, sleep." He rose abruptly, and reached his hand out to her to assist her to her feet. "You can pick what we eat for dinner, as I have dessert all planned out," he added with a wink.

"Sherlock, what are we doing? Is this a spur of the moment thing, or what? A one-off? A pleasant, but passing, interlude?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Molly. We Holmes build things to last. My parents have been happily married for almost fifty years. Speaking of which, we'll have to go visit them over the coming holidays so I can show you the tree-ship, still standing after all these years. Papa keeps it in good repair for his eventual grandchildren. He'll be gratified to learn that all his efforts have not been in vain."

"Sherlock, you're insufferable! I haven't agreed to anything!"

"Molly, dear, you're not making any sense. You started it!"

"How? How does one kiss lead to buying a house and having kids?"

"Futures have been built on less, Dr. Hooper. But, if one kiss isn't enough…" The word faded away as he took the small woman in his arms and delivered a kiss hot enough to warm the chill that had been slowly sinking into her bones. And that kiss definitely spoke to her heart of something built to last for a long time to come.


End file.
